


Be a Kingmaker

by ballpoint



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Character, Chromatic Character, F/M, Female Character of Color, Friendship, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason Olivia Pope went to work for the Grant campaign? To save her wardrobe. Yes. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be a Kingmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt written for mochamajesty in the Scandal fandom. _I would enjoy anything with Fitz and Liv, the early days of their relationship. Early as in after they meet in the passageway for the first time. I am really intrigued by their relationship on the campaign trail._
> 
> I think I might have gone off the reservation with the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, mate.
> 
> Please note: Scandal seems to run in a not so parallel universe to ours. By my calculations instead of Fitz Grant running for POTUS in 2008, like Barack Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton did; he ran in 2010, so that's the time marker I'm using until otherwise corrected.

“Cyrus,” Olivia answered, holding her cell to one ear while sticking her finger in the air as she walked backwards out of the kitchen into her living room. The high whine of the mixer faded with every step, as Olivia left Abby in the throes of folding ground almonds into a polenta and egg mix into a bowl, cup of almond flour in one hand, and a high powered portable mixer in the other.

“This is going to be so good,” Abby crooned, and Olivia guessed that she might have licked a blob of cake batter from a finger.

“Livvie.” Cyrus Beene’s voice boomed over the line, filled with humour and his cadence of riffing words together, fact and rhythm bouncing together. The familiar notes of his voice made her lips curve. “How are you?”

“Better than your candidate. If he keeps it up, he might not even make it through the initial primary, and we know how Darwinian those are.”

“Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III has the makings of a great President. The looks and iconic hints of a JFK; the heartfelt speechifying and education of William Jefferson Clinton; the self depreciation of Carter that attracted people into voting for him in the first term. The magnetism of that young Senator from Illinois -”

“The everyday man charm of George Bush Jr?”

“I prefer the term ‘Reaganesque’.”

“That’s the first Republican President you’ve invoked in the two minutes we’ve spoken.” Olivia cut in, punctuating her point with a finger in the air for emphasis, even though Cyrus was at the end of another line. Although Cyrus was a few states away, Olivia knew what he’d be doing right now. He’d be clad in a dark jumper, huddled near a window in the shadows, looking out at the brightly lit world outside. His eyes sharp, and not missing a trick that the young staffers might have tried to pull. He’d called because he wanted to hear her opinions, and Olivia had plenty.

“Your man is considered a RINO, Cy. _Republican In Name Only_. A moderate, centrist Republican from California, who believes in a non punitive immigration policy, pushed against Prop 8, and wants to strengthen Penn grants? He’s running against Sally Langston, a woman who found God after a misspent youth ; is a lay preacher in her church, and energises the Republican base - who, if I remember correctly skew white, older and religious. Governor Grant’s moderate Republicanism is met with askance scepticism by true conservatives, the minority groups don’t think he can be trusted, and whoops, he's on shaky ground with women. All indicators point to no. Cy, all I can wish you is good luck.”

A beat of silence over the line, and in the background, the clang of tins hitting the trays in the oven, Abby softly swearing to herself, the ticking of a timer to indicate that goods were being freshly baked. Olivia steeled herself for whatever appeals Cyrus would try to make to her person. She was angling for a favour owed- for no matter what happened, Cyrus Rutherford Beene’s talents would not be wasted on the hill- or an introduction to anyone who’d be profitable to her various ventures.

“Be a kingmaker.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Make Fitzgerald Grant III the forty fourth President of these United States and you can write your own cheque in the Beltway. I can see the headline in the New York Times now: Olivia Carolyn Pope, the woman who brought Fitz Grant from the dead. There’s be a place in the White House if you want it, when we win.”

“No ‘if’, Cy?”

“With you onboard, Liv winning is a sure thing. Say yes.”

“Cyrus-” Olivia sighed, placing her knuckles against her lips, deep in thought.

“Just, fly down and meet with him once, give the campaign a look over. See what your gut says; if you don’t think we have a shot at getting the brass ring, walk away. Walk away and there are no hard feelings, and I still owe you a favour.”

“No hard feelings if I walk away.”

“Not from my end.”

Olivia spun around slowly, and came to face Abby still bustling in the kitchen. Her hair up and off her neck into a bright red orange bun, her frock covered by a graphic apron tied with a crooked bow at the base of her back. This time Abby had a rolling pin in hand, and Olivia’s counter - usually sleek and black like rain drenched tarmac at night - now whited out with flour. With an expert flick of her wrist, Abby slapped her kneaded dough on the counter, before she set to roll it out into a sheet. With a noise halfway between a grunt and a grrr, Abby set to the task with an intensity that made Olivia sidle a bit closer to the window.

“This time, this recipe will work,” Abby hissed through gritted teeth. “The filling _will_ have enough flavour.”

Oh, Olivia remembered. Today was Wednesday, so it’d be a day for making cobbler. Mondays were soups and pilafs, Tuesdays crepes and breads, and today was pie.From scratch. If Abby kept this up, Olivia would have to find a new wardrobe by the end of the summer.

“When and where’s your campaign’s next stop?”

***

“So, what you’re trying to say is,” Fitz laughed, and his amusement was genuine. “You came on my campaign to save your wardrobe.”

Olivia’s lips curved into a half smile, as she tried to bank her own mirth at the situation but failed. She held her clipboard against her chest and took a step back, all flustered, like a ninth grader bumping into her crush in the halls after lunch and wondering if she had spinach in her teeth. “My friend does great cobbler.”

“There’s always room for great cobbler.”

“Not in my closet.”

They shared a smile at that, and their eyes met. It was still there, to Olivia’s horror. The same draw of _more_ when they were in that passageway, and he asked her for one minute. 

Not that she remembered exactly what he said, not at all.

_"Stand here with me for one minute,” he’d pleaded, his hands gesturing helplessly as he seemed stunned by what he was about to say. “Let's not go back in there or talk or think or,for one minute, we just stand here. I'm not the candidate and you're not the campaign fixer. We're just us. One minute, for one minute, just stand here with me."_

With great effort, Olivia jerked her head away, and looked out at the field before them, its offerings spread ready for crowds to fill it up and make it live. The mountains looming behind, their summits spearing above the just post dawn mists. It was early morning - seven am, according to her watch. Later in the afternoon would be a rally for Fitz, with the governor coming out to throw his support behind the campaign. Olivia, clad in parka, with oversized sweater, snug trousers and boots tromped out to look at the area, to make sure everything was going to plan.

The key elements had already been set up. A stage for local acts, stalls for small traders to sell their wares. Various security and safety rails indicating where queues should go. In the distance, a carousel, and an area for bumpercars beckoned, and Olivia started to walk in that direction, her heart tripping at the sight of the water, and nodding approvingly at the lifeguard’s chairs along the edge. Denver, Colorado, this state would be theirs for the taking - or at least, keenly contested. 

/two weeks ago

“We want family. Youth. Nostalgia,” Olivia counted off the points with her fingers as she made her case to Cyrus and Fitz at their campaign headquarters. “Since we can’t get Sally on God-”

“Nor do I want to,” Fitz cut in, and Cyrus tittered under his breath.

“We can get them on the Grant family angle, which you have in spades. Your wife, and children-”

“I don’t want my children to be dragged into this.”

“Governor, you’re running for President of the United States, by dint of your actions, you’ve already dragged them into this.”

Fitz shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared at her. Undeterred, Olivia continued, as she stepped in front of the whiteboard, scrawled with their strategic keywords, and a storyboard of the spiel she wanted to give the media to run with tacked along the surface. “We want to hit the papers with pictures of the Grants; smiling, laughing, and with other young families. We will use that to launch your platform for all your pet policies; non punitive immigration, equality for _all_ families. It won’t be the silver bullet, but it will help you to gain valuable traction among women and conservatives, and you need that.”

“Media?” Cyrus asked, his thumbs flying across the keys of his Blackberry.

“Washington Post, New York Times. I’ll double check to see if the relevant reporters are on our bus for that stop. If not, we’ll reach out to them and ask them to get on. CNN, Fox, MSNBC have been tapped. As well as Denver’s local news stations and newspapers. In addition, invitations have been set to Huffington Post, The Daily Dish, and Politico.”

“Online blogs?”

“They’re important.”

“ _Liv_ , they’re unpredictable.”

“Still important.”

Cyrus rubbed at his chin with his hand and gave an exaggerated huff.

“That’s on your watch,” he said at last. “If anything goes pear shaped-”

“It will be handled,” Olivia folded her arms across her chest. Cyrus and herself exchanged a brief, sharp glare.

“If you two are finished, can I ask a question?” Fitz interjected, pushing himself away from the wall. Olivia surreptitiously followed his movements under lowered eyelashes. She now knew Fitz long enough to gather that he was restless, and brooding. The impatient drumming of his fingers against the table, the gleam of his wedding band hitting the light; a warning for her to turn away.

She couldn’t, not with the way the light sliced by way of the blinds slanting across his features, his eyes a startling blue, his hair in soft waves. His jaw clenched as he swallowed. The light silvering the hairs on his forearm as he rubbed the nape of his neck absently with the palm of his hand. Dispassionately, Olivia could see him as President, he had the qualities that played to American’s projection of herself, of the candidate she desired to woo her and in return, deliver them the highest office in the land: height, with an easy dignity and a good head of hair. His body fit and lean, hinting at a man who spent his time outdoors, at an athleticism not freely seen since JFK was in office.

As anything more, as if a shared minute in the hallway could be anything more- at that, her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, towards Cyrus. Cyrus’ eyes weren’t on her, but on the screen of his smartphone. A small smile playing around his lips as he tapped out a message with his thumbs, and Olivia wondered what dirt he’d manage to dig up now, despite Fitz’s mandate that they wage a clean campaign.

The three of them were in the ‘brains’ of the campaign headquarters, one of the smaller rooms on the premises. What it lacked in size, it made up for in natural light, and large sheet sized windows covered with venetian blinds.

Size wise, the room nothing but a cubicle, big enough to hold a desk, three chairs, and a filing cabinet. With three of them in there, it was a tight squeeze. Olivia liked the room because three of the walls were clad floor to ceiling with the sleek material of whiteboard. An idea was only a marker away to scrawl on the wall. Today, Olivia had taken up the walls with storyboards of ‘A day with the Grants’ that she’d dreamed up. An unabashed and shameless homage to Norman Rockwell. People wouldn’t intellectually tell what the campaign images were supposed to invoke, but emotionally, they’d drool on cue like Pavlov’s dog.

“Governor Grant?” Olivia asked, with raised eyebrows.

Fitz opened his mouth, and closed it again. After a minute, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just be there, with your wife and family. Let us do the rest.”

/just outside of Denver, Colorado: 2010

 

“You don’t have to be here,” Olivia said at last, as she lifted her camera to her eyes. Flicking to telephoto lens mode, she scanned the field. She fired off a few shots with the camera before tucking it into the pocket of her parka. Making her decision, she turned and started to walk towards the body of water.

“You said, ‘be here’. I’m here.”

“With your wife and family.” Olivia replied without heat, as she checked the field plans on her clipboard against their surroundings.

Many a campaign became unhinged over bad publicity due to inadequate venues. Nowadays, with one ‘micro story’ in the blogosphere with twitter and youtube, a mistake could be in the same breath as a catastrophe.

“They’re at the hotel, sleeping. It’s early.” Fitz said, as he kept in stride with her, as they walked across the field. Despite the late summer morning, the field a veil of mist still covered the green, making it seem as if the world decided to roll over and call it a late morning. Olivia’s breaths marked with huffs of steam in the chilled air as she walked on. 

At this hour, no one was on field yet, since most of the framework and details had been seen to the day before. No one was scheduled to report to their various posts until nine am working towards a three pm start. Olivia was glad for the quiet, and hadn’t even minded sharing a walk with Fitz at six forty five am when she came out of the slumbering campaign bus to stretch her legs. This was grunt work, she knew, and he’d get bored and and go back to the bus, or the hotel. He'd bide his time, wait for his cue and get out of her way. 

Fine by her, since clients only made things worse when they were underfoot.

“You’re up.”

Fitz stepped in front of her, and although his head and shoulders blocked out the sun, her entire body warmed, heat bloomed on her cheeks as if she were standing on a sun drenched beach. Like Icarus who got drunk with freedom and drawn towards the sun heady with the first flap of wing; Olivia couldn't look away from Fitz. For the first time since the passageway, since forever - it seemed- she got to look at him. Saw the laugh lines around his eyes, the warm blue that reminded her of worn denim. Jeans that faded, were broken in, and when when you slipped into them, they had the warmth and comfort of an old lo-acquaintance. His hair, still wet from the shower he took, the waves twisting and settling into place as they dried. Today, he dressed like something out of an LL Bean catalogue; the heavy rugged tanned coat, plaid shirt, jeans and boots. 

His skin clean shaven, with the notes of almonds and citrus a hint on the wind as he took a step towards her, and got into her space. God help her, she couldn’t move, not when she could feel the warm curl of breath with the hints of toothpaste and coffee on her face as he spoke. 

"For all of the machinations that you and Cy are pulling for me to win, this is still _my_ campaign, Ms Pope. If you're up and running around for my benefit, the least I can do is tag along."

"It’s grunt work, Governor."

“And yet, here you are.”

“I’m a grunt.”

“No,” Fitz raised his hand, as if to touch her. Olivia stood there, torn between the desire to bolt, and just _desire_. Her pulse fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, her heartbeat a short, hard tattoo against her ribs, and yet unable to step back. As if he’d changed his mind, Fitz flicked at the top of her clipboard with his index finger. “The way Cy speaks about you, he thinks you’re something special,” he grinned at her then, for an instant all boy. “I believe him.”

“Funny,” Olivia said after a minute, and gingerly stepped back and around Fitz and started walking again. “Cy thinks the same about you, too. He thinks you can be it, the next President of these United States.”

“And you? What does your gut say?”

“I think there’s a chance,” Olivia grateful for the out and the distance. “Your narrative is good, your optics suit - you’re paired up, with children. Your wife’s smart, but not perceived to be scarily so. We might not need the spectre of Jesus on our side, but if you’re not too adverse to dropping by a church service or three that can only help your ratings.”

Fitz smiled, and this time it wasn’t as easy as before. It didn’t reach his eyes either. “And here I am thinking that the message mattered.”

Ouch, here was a sensitive spot, and wasn’t that interesting? No, Olivia chided herself, it wasn’t. Because it couldn’t and he was married, and out of bounds, and she shouldn’t. With that in mind, she half fast walked half jogged towards the body of water, her hair flying around her face and shoulders, leaving him behind, her eyes on the lake. She forced herself to take in the blue of it, the picturesque surroundings. 

Imagined the hustle and laughter of children, and the artful photo ops of Fitz walking along the riverbank, with a gaggle of kids- they tapped the various local modelling agencies for the most photogenic with the strictest of secrecy. Boom, his environmental speech right there, in front of the mountains, a thousand words in one picture, and that was before he even started to do that . Took out the camera from her parka, stuck her clipboard in the space between her arm and body and fired off some pictures, hardly focusing on the composition of thirds. By God, this rally was going to be great, the result would rock the most optimistic projections, even if she had to will it into being. 

Only to close her eyes, and throw her head back, feeling the first warmth of the sun against her throat and eyes. Felt the weight of his stare, the pull of his presence. Don’t look back, she told herself. Just don’t. When she spun around to face Fitz - to see him _looking_ at her. Unmoving as he stood where he was, a lone figure against the vast expanse of green, the sun shining on his face, and _oh_. She didn’t need a psychic to know that the feelings etched across his face; the lust, the desire, the need, the _ache_ mirrored hers. She didn’t dare, and took a step back from the metaphorical ledge. 

“The message matters,” she said at last, wanting to be warmer, but falling back on what she knew best, as she raised her hands in a manner of conceding the point, yet half supplicating. The gesture worked on difficult clients in the past. Her clipboard fell on the ground beside her and she didn’t care. “I know it’s frustrating what we do, and for all you know, it might seem like hoodoo and noise to you. I sympathise, Governor, but understand the strategy of Cy and myself, we know this; the message matters. Your message matters. We’re just filtering the noise, cleaning the windows, vacuuming the carpets and the rest of this extended metaphor for cleaning house. We’re doing it so that people can-” Olivia forced her words over the hitch in her voice, lifted her lips into a smile. “We do it so they can see you, and once they see you, you can then deliver your message.”

After an indeterminable time, Fitz finally nodded, and strode towards her. His manner almost touching on reckless. If he touched her now, she’d burn, they’d burn and they’d take his campaign with it. He dropped to his knees at her feet, and stood up, her clipboard in his outstretched hand. 

“So you’re making me a show house of a politician.” 

“We’re opening the door, Governor,” she made her voice as brisk as the morning around them. “It’s up to you to step in, make your case, and slam it behind you when you’re finished.”

“Understood.” 

Gingerly, as though the clipboard suddenly grew teeth, she took the clipboard in her fingers, and curled it against her chest as if were a favoured pet. 

“The event begins at three pm, the gates will open at two. If you and your family can arrange to be there around an hour before opening time, it will be helpful.”

“I can do that.” Fitz nodded, his eyes still on her, and Olivia didn’t turn away. “Ms Pope.”

“Governor.” 

With a jerky nod, Fitz turned away, and walked towards the bus, his strides covering more ground than hers did. Olivia stayed there, in front of the lake, and watched him go.

***

Later, much later, with the onset of fatigue that came from having a great day before, Olivia and Cyrus shared an early breakfast (or in her case, a late, late, late dinner) at the hotel’s restaurant. Between them they had broadsheets, and magazines spread across the table like cloth. Cy’s laptop browser opened on about fifteen different websites and he flicked through each one. Olivia went through the papers with red ink, circling the words used for their candidate for feedback at their HQ.

They were so early, the dining room was empty, the space seemed cavernous. 

“He was on fire, Livvie,” Cyrus rubbed his hands, ignoring his Cobb salad, his eyes lit with glee and on Olivia. “The environmental protections he discussed with him walking along the lake. That hotdog contest with Mellie and himself. Walks with Kings and yet has the common touch. Stagecraft,” he all but hummed. “I’m hearing the term ‘Presidential’ being bandied about.”

“It’s early days yet, Cyrus.”

“If you don’t think you’re going to win, don’t even begin to get in the game. Liv, you know that.”

“I know that,” Olivia poked at her omelette. “I-” she stopped as a waitress came towards their table with a tray in hand.

“Miss Olivia Pope?” 

“I’m she.”

The waitress smiled, a slip of a thing, pink with wispy tousled blonde hair. She seemed all warm and sleepy, as if she’d just been hatched. She took a small box from her tray, and handed it to Olivia. “For you? If you could just sign here?”

With a smile at the young girl, Olivia signed. As soon as the waitress went out of earshot, Cyrus gestured to the box. “Client?”

“Yes,” Olivia opened the box, and smiled. “It’s just-” she lifted it out of the box with some ceremony, and set it to one side away from the papers. At four inches in diameter, it could fit into the palm of her hand. “Cobbler.”

“Cute. Soon they’ll be sending cupcakes. This is not a crafting circle, we are waging a war, gentle people. We have a campaign to plan and a country to win.” Cyrus muttered absently, tapping at the keyboard of his laptop, his mind already half way into other strategies for the next leg of the campaign trail.

At the bottom of the box, a note. With trembling fingers she unfolded it, noted the thick, heavy stationery quality of the paper. The loops of blue fountain pen scribbled across heavy cream paper. _There’s always room for great cobbler_ , it said. _Wardrobe be damned_. 

Olivia smiled, stroked the note with her thumb. She felt warmed, as if she'd come into sunlight after a long freeze. Softened, and charmed. She admired his penmanship and humour and knew, she was in trouble. 

Fin


End file.
